Cannon(47)

I exhale heavily. "No, of course not."

Grace wrinkles her nose. "You aren't interested in anyone? What about that singer, the one you toured with? Not the older guy. The other one, the nice one, the one your age?"

"Nick?" I ask. "He's gay."

"Is he?"

"He's not out yet, but yeah."

"You're boring," Grace says, sniffing. "Have you heard from Hendrix?"

"No. Why would I hear from him?" My voice catches in my throat. I haven't heard from him in months. I don't know where he is now. He graduated from Marine Corps training last month, and I didn't go. No one did, even his own father.

We had an event, a big country music one that I had to go to as part of my contract. The event was Hendrix's father's excuse, but I think really the Colonel just didn't want to go. I'm not sure if his father was disappointed in Hendrix for joining the Marines, or secretly intimidated by the fact that he joined and actually completed training.

I think he expected Hendrix to show back up on the front doorstep a few weeks into training, because he'd dropped out or was kicked out.

I think that's what I expected, too. That's what I hoped. And then each week passed, and it didn't happen.

"I don't know, Addison," Grace says. "You guys are like BFFs. I figured you'd hear from him. Is he done training?"

"I have no idea," I say, shrugging. Acting like it's no big deal. "What do you mean, we're BFFs? We hardly talk."

Grace cocks her head to the side and studies me carefully. "Addison Stone, you and Hendrix are besties, whether you want to admit it or not."

I roll my eyes. "This is a bo-ring conversation. Why don't we talk about something more interesting. Like your love life, for example?"

Grace blushes, and I immediately sit up. "Why are you blushing?" I ask. "You met someone."

"No, he's nobody. He's really…not my type."

"As in, he's normal?"

"Screw you, Addison," she says. But she's smiling. Come to think of it, I've seen her smiling a lot more than usual lately.

"I don't want to talk about it," she says. "It's not going anywhere. We're just hanging out. Anyway, what are you scribbling in your journal?"

"Songs."

"Ooh, show me," she says. "You never sing for me anymore."

"Because the studio is writing all my music now," I say, shrugging. "It's not so fun anymore. It's more like a job, so it's kind of lame now. Anyway, they're nothing."





PRESENT DAY



"Finally!" Sapphire yells in my face. "I didn't think you'd grace us with your presence, even for my birthday, since you've become a complete recluse and gone into hiding!" She grabs my shoulders and kisses me on each cheek twice, her extra-pretentious air kiss, before she takes my hand and leads me into the club. The music is irritatingly loud and the base sends vibrations through the floor that make it feel like it's traveling through my body.

The club is packed, and Hendrix is behind me, his hand on the small of my back as he guides me through the crowd. His touch does the same thing to me it always has – it sends a thrill of arousal rushing through me, and I immediately think of what it felt like when he ran his hands over my naked flesh. Part of me wants to just stop, right here, and spin around in his arms.

Someone gets too close to me, and Hendrix puts his forearm up to protect me. I want to tell Hendrix that I'm sorry for the morning after. And the whole week. And for being a complete bitch. I've wanted to tell him that a hundred times this week. I even knocked on his door once, but stopped, my fist frozen in mid-air, unable to follow through.

The smart part of me knows that what happened between Hendrix and I was colossally stupid. But so is this tonight, going out to a club with my old friends. Maybe part of me wants to get a reaction from Hendrix.

I can't continue with him, the way it has been, silent between us, our own private two-person cold war. I want something to happen, even if it's a goddamned explosion, fireworks, a fight that goes nuclear.

As soon as Sapphire air-kisses me, I remember how fucking awkward it was for me before, going out with them while they partied and got stoned and acted so damn pretentious. Why did I used to think this was fun, anyway? Lounging around on a chaise in my makeup and short dress in a roped-off VIP area while my friends laugh and people in the crowd snap photos that will wind up on the cover of a tabloid? It's risky.

We're not even here for ten minutes before Hendrix leans over and yells in my ear. "Are you about fucking finished here?" he asks. "You've made an appearance. You need to get out of here before anything gets out of hand."